


Too Soon

by Narni



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Can be slash if you want, Enjolras is human, Gen, Grantaire is a drunk idiot, Grantaire is in love with Enjolras, alot of god imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25279708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narni/pseuds/Narni
Summary: Grantaire finds Enjolras umoving in the Musain, and Grantaire being Grantaire assumes the worst.
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Too Soon

Grantaire hated this. The feeling of being awake before actual consciousness hauls his body back into the real world, the world he had been trying to escape from in the first place.

One by one his senses returned to him; the smell of cheap alcohol washed over him, irritating his nostrils, drawing attention to the old taste in his mouth and making his stomach churn. He groaned. The sound muffled against what he now knew to be the arm of his coat and even in his heavily hung-over state, he still had the surprise to notice that the sound echoed in a quiet room. 

Gingerly he lifted his head from his arms, eyes still closed, and tested its balance and weight upon his neck; it felt heavy and pounded with each pulsation of his heart. He then went to prise his eyes open but pinpricks of light within the darkness made his head spin. How much had he drunk this time? More than usual he thought wryly. Yet he still had the care to be thankful no one else was here to see it. 

Instead, he listened. At first, he heard nothing but eventually, the noise of Paris reached his ears. Just outside the room he heard the last of the drunkards making their way home, in the distance, the dockworkers bellowed at each other over the groan of the ships and in between these two sounds the gallop and roll of a fiacre made its way down the cobbled street. He was still at the Musain Graintaire realised and not wanting to face the embarrassment of being kicked out he upped his efforts to get himself up. 

With a deep breath, he went to open his eyes once more, and squinting into the darkness he found that the few lights that had tortured him before were in fact just candles, but more importantly the sight which they allowed to be seen assured Grantaire that he was not as alone as he first thought. 

Pooled in soft candlelight, in the corner adjacent to his, Enjolras was bent over his papers where he had, it seemed, fallen asleep. 

Grantaire started a little as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. This wasn't a sight meant to be seen, least of all by himself; mad, drunk, unworthy Grantaire. 

He looked around him wildly, the drink sloshing in his brain, to check no one was spying unto his sleeping God, before stumbling to the door in haste so as to not intrude further. 

Yet he made the mistake to look back. The golden locks, fallen from their ribbon, glowed in a celestial fashion in the dim light and before Grantaire realised he had even turned, his hand was there hovering above his leader's halo. 

With surprising steadiness, his fingers brushed the soft hair behind an ear to reveal Enjolras' face. Grantaire admired how the light flicked poetically across his pale cheekbones, causing shadow to pool in its hollows on one side whilst the other was illuminated in warmth. His lips were slightly parted to allow the smallest but sustaining amount of air to enter his lungs. His expression was not peaceful however as Grantaire would have wished, instead a faint line of worry, often deep during waking hours, was only slightly smoothed; exhaustion and the weight of his responsibilities evident.

The man before him was never meant to portray weakness; the small wounds he gained last July were fussed over but he was nothing but strength, this winter’s cold had been concealed valiantly and even the faint traces of fatigue were ignored by himself and those around him. 

He was everything to Grantaire.

The picture before him, whilst seeming like a gift to taunt the other man with later, made Grantaire's thoughts darken. 

All at once, an image of Enjolras dead and bleeding was conjured in his mind, one that he had imagined before and the same that made him drink himself into a stupor. It was only a matter of time.

The thought struck him square in the chest, he felt as though he had been shot. Shakily now, he moved his hand to touch the fingers of the other retracting them hastily when he found them cold. 

Desperately he watched for the movement of his breathing chest but Grantaire detected none. Could it be that death had come so soon to claim his Enjolras? 

The drunken man stumbled backwards in despairing disbelief, his still intoxicated mind unable to comprehend.

He all but ran out of the cafe, landing on his knees and gasping for breath on the hard cobbles. Ugly tears began to leak from his eyes and he hastily wiped at them with shaking palms. Loud chattering stark against the silent night, had him on his feet again and stumbling down the street. The lights of Paris fought a losing battle against the night’s dark air and Grantaire vaguely wondered, if the sun would rise tomorrow now that Enjolras, Apollo the Sun God was dead.

Eventually, he had to stop in the mouth of an alley when he could no longer stand. 

In death Enjolras' cold gaze could not pierce his soul, his tongue slice and Grantaire wondered briefly what he was without these causes of metaphorical incisions to remind him he could still bleed, that his veins weren't overflowing with alcohol yet. If there was no Enjolras then there was no Grantaire. He began to sob.

Whilst sat in that corner, darkness settled around him, smothering all life in black death before the skies began to lighten and turn pink with the morning's brilliant sun; this sign was lost to Grantaire.

After what seemed like forever, Grantaire got back to his feet and wandered solemnly back to the Musain with one thing in mind, to pay his respects to Enjolras. The walk was agonisingly long but also not nearly long enough. When he eventually reached the door he almost ran in the opposite direction, overwrought with grief.

As he entered the door groaned with aged protest and his boots stomped and scuffed disrespectfully against the floor as they passed table legs and chairs. They stopped outside another door that led to the back room and Grantaire paused to breathe deeply, his hand then went to the doorknob.

However much to his surprise, it was yanked from his hand before he could turn it. Upon opening his eyes, for he had closed them just before, he found a ghost blocking his path.

‘Grantaire?’

Blue eyes looked down at him quizzically.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mmph’ Words had escaped him.

‘Grantaire...? What...’ Enjolras then yelped, apparently, Grantaire had fallen to the floor.

Enjolras sighed, probably rolling his eyes too, and bent down to help the man before him to his feet, ‘How on earth can you still be drunk at this hour?’ he demanded. He tried to lift Grantaire to his feet, however, he was stopped by the watering eyes that looked desperately into his.

‘You were dead.’ He whispered, ‘I saw you’ he pointed into the room behind him then cried, ‘and you were dead!’.

Enjolras shook his head, golden hair flying into his face, ‘I fell asleep Grantaire’. He pulled him to his feet. ‘I. Was. Sleeping.’ He said more slowly.

Grantaire looked at him in disbelief, he was so sure before but now his Apollo stood before him, his hands still holding his arms, his eyes looking into his and he had a pounding headache; this was not a dream, he never dreamt of headaches.

Suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck him, how foolish he had been, and he began to laugh. Enjolras’ eyes narrowed and came alight with fury. ‘You are drunk.’ This was stated in Enjolras’ usual cold tone. He let go of Grantaire’s arms and this caused him to stumble. Enjolras snorted in disgust, drawing to his full height and looked down his nose at him.

‘Go home Grantaire’ he walked briskly past him to the door, only looking back to shake his head before he headed out into Paris’ dawn.

Sitting down in a chair, Grantaire rested his head on his palm and with a contented grin on his face waited for his leader, Marcelin Enjolras, deifier of death, to return.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always very welcome. x


End file.
